


Help Me

by MrsMollyH



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: Anorexia, Cutting, M/M, Swim Team, Swimming, swimslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is from 2004.</p>
<p>Nothing got in the way of a Peirsol and his goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me

Although Michael enjoyed its lack, Aaron often found himself wishing for a gag reflex, wishing that his two longest fingers would absolve him of his sins.

Aaron stared at Michael’s hipbones when they fucked, wanting his own to pierce his skin that way. With each thrust, Peirsol admired the twelve ridges of Phelps’ ribs, his cock hardening upon seeing them.

Between Michael’s practiced licks and sucks, Aaron was critiquing the concavity of his own stomach and how Phelps’ eyes caught his from below his pelvic bones. Peirsol recalled words, more bitten than spoken to Michael: _use your teeth, make me hurt._

Michael had slid his teeth along Aaron’s cock to the rim of the seam of head to shaft. The pain had been good and it echoed the stings from his perennially empty stomach. The younger swimmer’s fingers had gripped Aaron’s shrinking hips, digging his nails into bone as he did. Peirsol had gasped in pleasure at the pain.

Aaron had taught himself how to forget the pangs and disregard the angry gurgles of his stomach. Nothing got in the way of a Peirsol and his goal. 

Aaron’s father had always told him that, told him with each competition he swam, when he applied to UT and—at first—with each woman he brought home. It was a saying Aaron lived by now.

He had barely slipped under 175 for Athens; now the Californian was looking for 160. He wanted to feel like all of this was worth it; he wanted to make sure he was perfect for him and perfect for Michael.

Fucking was about perfection for Aaron: hips, sharp and edged, grinding together in sync; sliding into Michael with easy rhythm, his cock in Phelps; bruises left on skin by over-eager teeth that matched the ridges in ribs, once flawless, now flawed.

When Michael came, he had the habit of raking his fingers over Aaron’s back, his nails skipping when they hit a bone. The next morning, Aaron would always discover broken lines on his back: 5 parallel marks that broke over each rib. Without fail, Phelps would join him in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror when he spoke, supposedly to Aaron: _you’re beautiful._

Aaron knew what a narcissist Michael was, but he stayed with him anyway. Sometimes he wondered why he kept Michael around, but decided that the sex was good and he might as well not ruin a good thing. 

He would never admit to himself that it was Michael who stayed with him because he enjoyed the love that Aaron needed to give him.

Michael treasured each interview and each new magazine that featured him the way Aaron treasured each pound lost and each new bone revealed. And they both treasured Michael.

“I love you, Michael,” Aaron would rasp over the sweat-defined body below him as he thrust, his back arched with each push. When the words were off the Californian’s tongue, Michael would twist his fingers into blond curls and pull so that the light would hit Aaron’s throat and would whisper the words back, always swallowing the last word.

But the sex was good, each rock and thrust, each twisting hand on a hard, young cock. They were both too young to care about much else but themselves, so teeth raked across nipples and smooth fingers tested the nerves just below thin skin and all seemed right with the world.

But then Aaron started to hurt more than anyone would ever understand.

The first time Aaron cut, Michael didn’t know what to do. It had already healed enough so that it wouldn’t bleed but it was there, crimson and deep on his arm and he really had no idea what to do. Aaron told him it was an accident but they both knew it was a lie and it was a bad lie.

Sex was gentle that night, no biting, no nails, just sweet and gentle. Michael’s heart broke for the two of them, and the next morning he couldn’t stand looking at his face in the mirror because he knew he had failed Aaron somehow and this was his fault.

Michael didn’t see Aaron start to cry.

But he never did, never had before, so Aaron wondered why he would have started noticing now. Aaron’s world was coming down around his shoulders and there was no way he could stop it and there was now way he could get it back to normal because he was too young for any of this to be happening, too young for all of it to be happening and Michael couldn’t help him, and his family couldn’t help him, and Ian and Brenden and Lenny couldn’t help him. No one could now.

No one could help him but himself and he just didn’t know how.


End file.
